


one last whispered memory

by zhelaniye



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo in Rivendell, Grief/Mourning, M/M, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhelaniye/pseuds/zhelaniye
Summary: He will kneel before Aulë, crafter of Arda in Ilúvatar’s image, and pay homage to Durin the Deathless if he must, for a chance to look upon Thorin Oakenshield’s blue eyes once more. He knows as much.or: a conversation between Arwen and Bilbo, and the memories it stirs.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	one last whispered memory

The valley of Rivendell extends itself into the rising sun underneath Bilbo Baggins’ feet. The trees stand proudly above the wandering elves’ heads, with the confidence of those who had beared witness to the birth and death of countless ages. The intertwined gold and white and cerulean from the buildings shimmered in the gentle sunlight, warmly welcoming a new day as the breeze carried the first notes of the harps and flutes playing from the main halls into the wind.

It is beautiful, breathtakingly so, and not even the darkness gathering and roaring in the east could have casted a shadow over it. 

He remembers the first time he glanced upon Imladris, many years ago, many more than he cared to remember, stumbling out of the Ford of Bruinen alongside thirteen dirty, rowdy, exhausted dwarves gripping their axes as if they expected to fight their way to the last one of Elrond’s men. He is too old to repress the wave of heartache that accompanies the memory, so he lets it wash over him and closes his eyes.

He does not see or hear the figure approach.

“You seem weary, Master Baggins” a voice says. 

He opens his eyes to greet an elf. She is tall and her blue eyes are bright gems upon her dark skin, with darker hair tumbling down her shoulders in an endless cascade. She is dressed with a simple billowing beige tunic, trailing past her slender frame in the morning breeze, but there is something about her posture and the grace of her movements that reminds Bilbo of royalty. It takes him longer than it should have to remember her name — names and memories alike seemed to elude him more often than not, lately.

“Lady Arwen,” he greets, and bows rushedly.

She smiles graciously and nods to him.

“At ease, Master Baggins” she says, her voice gentle and light. “May I sit with you?”

Bilbo hurriedly moves his scrolls and quills, dropping fresh ink onto his already stained fingertips in his rush to make space for her.

“You write” she observes, and it sounds like a question, but it isn’t.

“Little else to do for an old man in times of war, my lady” he replies. 

She smiles kindly, and Bilbo can see the traces of her father in her, in the strength and firmness of her shoulders undimmed by her gentleness, and in the way the corner of her lips are pulled down ever so slightly — by grief, or worry, or a combination of both. Such is the beauty of the elves, he thinks, sorrowful and untarnished for it. 

“There’s no place for any of us in times of war,” she says.

The silence that follows stretches on for too long, a not uncommon event in a conversation with elves, blessed and cursed alike with the patience to wait until the end times. 

Then Arwen looked towards him and away from the now fully risen sun, proudly shining its warm golden light upon this side of the Misty Mountains, as if it had been shunned from the eastern lands and decided to take refuge in the lands of the elven realm.

“What do you write about, Master Baggins?” she asked. “I have always lacked the talent for narrative”.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, not keen on believing an elf would so freely admit to their own faults. 

“About many things,” he says, “many people. But mostly me, and the things I saw in my days, the things I did”.

“Your life story”, she says, and there is something reverent and strange in her voice.

Bilbo nods, and Arwen traces the title on the leather bindings of the book with her fingertips, an awed and immeasurably sad expression on her face. 

“It isn’t a finished story, Master Baggins” she says.

But it will be soon, Bilbo thinks, but doesn’t say. He knew about the boat, docked at the Grey Havens, slowly being readied to cross the Great Sea, to leave the shores of Middle Earth, westbound on a trip from which it shall never return. Away from the Shire, and the small, warm-lit interior of Bag-end. Away from the small garden of roses that gather in the garden outside its doorstep, and the wild blooming flowers that grow on the sides of the road leading up to it. Away from the ever-green valleys of Rivendell and the dwindling grace of Mirkwood. Away from the white, lone tower of Minas Tirith, and its ever watchful eastward gaze. Away from Erebor and its noble stones, always resounding with hammers and the fire from the forges and laughter, and away from the men that dwell beneath.

Bilbo Baggins’ time in Middle Earth is coming to an end swiftly, he knows as much. And he finds it almost funny that even now, even after being granted much more time than any other of his kin, after carrying many more memories than his years warranted, he finds himself grasping at straws, trying to retain as much as he can in his failing memory of the place he spent more than ten decades inhabiting. 

It seems unfair, to ask for more when he has been given so much — more time, more memories. One last chance to walk again the path of the Mountain, the one he took only once before, unwilling to go back and glance upon the stones than stand alone and proud, scraping the sky. Not on his own. 

But he wanted to see the Lonely Mountain again, and when he’d left the Shire, just for a brief moment of time, he had thought he could make it. And then he’d stumbled into Rivendell, feeling every last one of his years in his shaking hands and aching joints, and now here he sat, at dawn, fruitlessly scrutinizing the eastern horizon for a glimpse of a mountain half a world away.

Perhaps it is best, he thinks. He’d seen the dwarven statues of the long-gone kings, glanced upon their unseeing eyes carved into the same stone that had once birthed them, cold and grey and majestic, and the thought of the last memory of his eyes being like that made him feel dizzy, slightly nauseous, as if he’d smoked one of those bitter herbs Gandalf had been so fond of back in the day.

“I wonder what it feels like,” Arwen is saying, still keeping her wide, sorrowful eyes fixed upon the book “to be able to see your own story through. To see yourself as a whole.”

Bilbo looks at her, and regards the doubts and wistfulness barely concealed in her voice. “What do you mean, my lady?”

“Endings are meaningful,” she says, “to see your beginning and your end, to see your destiny realized instead of chasing it for the rest of time, to see yourself fully and finally understand. It must mean something.”

Bilbo thinks of the halls of Erebor crowded and silent and the blue glow of the cursed stone clutched between broad, cold hands being laid down into the bowels of the Earth, forever resting together in the damp darkness of the mountain. He thinks of the deafening screeches of the eagles that came too late and blue eyes turned skyward, unseeing and empty.

A choked chuckle is forced out of him by the sheer weight of the memories that, cruelly, hadn’t faded even now, even so close to the end. 

“Endings are just endings,” Bilbo says, not looking at Arwen. “It is what comes before that counts”.

He directs his tired eyes towards the elf. “You have strange thoughts for one of the Eldar kin, my lady”.

She smiles and her eyes speak of a profound sadness that Bilbo feels reverberating in his chest. “Perhaps I do.”

Arwen reads through parts of the book, her bright, keen eyes taking notice of the details of Bilbo’s life work. 

There are maps, carefully scribbled on the margins, with crosses and arrows marking spots and landmarks both on the page and on Bilbo’s waning memory. There are sketches of varying levels of detail — they’re Frodo’s curls when he was younger, just a small lad running around his uncle’s legs, begging for one more bedtime story; a pack of trolls, frozen into stone by the unforgiving morning light, their faces twisted in angry surprise; the chaos of the spring market on the Shire, warmth and laughter and the scent of freshly cooked bread almost leaking out of the page. And a pair of eyes, both fierce and warm, scattered amongst the many pages, never finished, as if Bilbo had fruitlessly tried to recreate them over and over and had given up. 

Bilbo sees Arwen look for a full drawing, her curiosity obvious in the way her back is elegantly hunched over the book, and brings a hand to his chest to feel the rough edges of a folded parchment neatly tucked into the innermost pocket of his waistcoat. 

He debates whether to take it out — not even Frodo had seen it, no one had except him and Gandalf, many years ago, when he had beared witness to the deepest moments of his grief. But he is nearing the end of his line now, and a war brews in the east, a darkness that threatens to swallow it all, and it has been long enough.

He takes the drawing out, his wrinkled, shaking hands unfolding it with the care with which one would caress a sleeping lover, and places it over the page Arwen is inspecting. The page is yellowed and its edges are worn with use to the point where they have lost their shape, its corners are creased and there are thinned areas where trembling fingers have been running over the inked lines for years. 

It takes a few moments for the elf’s eyes to lit up with recognition. 

“The dwarven king” she whispers.

“Thorin Oakenshield” Bilbo replies, nodding. 

A shiver racks through his body when the name leaves his lips. It had been a long time since he had said it out loud for anyone to hear, ever since he had retreated back into the Shire, well away from the Mountain and from anywhere the minstrels had cause to remember his name. 

“I recall your visit, many long years ago,” she says, and a mischievous smile breaks on her face. “So must all of Rivendell, with the stir your companions caused”.

Bilbo’s laughter grows from the bottom of his chest and rattles his ribcage with its force. 

“They ransacked the kitchen, did they not?” he chuckled, and Arwen nodded. “In all my years, I have never seen anyone as torn between murder and utter delight as Thorin was when he found out.”

The elf looked at him and her wide, knowing eyes burrowed into his, gently, as if tearing his secrets apart from his laughter alone. 

Perhaps it had been a long time since Bilbo Baggins had been in the company of someone who remembered Thorin Oakenshield, perhaps he was much too old to hold onto secrecy anymore, or perhaps he simply found no point in pretending. But for whatever reason, he let his guard crumble down completely and the fondness intertwined in his memories overtake him with a sigh. 

“I should leave you to your books,” she says, and takes his hand between hers, his wrinkled, spotted skin contrasting harshly with her soft, delicate, dark-skinned fingers. “I have taken up too much of your time.”

Bilbo clasps her hands before she can let go of him. 

“Thank you, Lady Arwen,” he says, “for listening to a very old man’s folly”.

“Perhaps I could sit with you tomorrow again?” she asks. “I would very much like to hear the beginning of the tale”. 

Bilbo smiles and nods, and his smile doesn’t die until she’s already out of sight.

The gardens around him are starting to attract wandering elves, busying themselves with their morning duties and leisure, and Bilbo picks up his book and scrolls and heads inside, seeking a more private place to write on. 

The white linen of his sheets are in stark contrast with the yellowed and worn aspect of the parchment when he scatters his scrolls on the bed to reorganize them, and he realizes there are fewer than he had thought. 

There were many blank spaces in the book, waiting to be filled, and Bilbo knew exactly how he wanted to fill them, but he did not possess the words to do so. 

He wanted to write about the thick layer of dust covering everything once he got back to the Shire, his wounds still not fully healed and his chest burning with farewells, and how it had clang to the furniture for years afterwards no matter how hard he had tried to scrub it away, as had the silence that had settled on the house that nothing seemed to chase away. 

He wanted to write about the deafening screeches of the Eagles scouring the sky and the freezing wind flying through his hands, his curls and his threadbare jacket. About the joyful yell that he wanted to let out when he saw Thorin stir, safe between the claws of one of the birds, beaten and battered and alive. About the different beauty the world seemed to have, so far beneath his feet, with its silver rivers lazily twirling between dense, green forests.

He wanted to write about the rumble of a dragon’s breath and the malevolence in its knowing eyes as they dig into him. “I am almost tempted to let you take it,” he had said and the shivers that racked Bilbo’s body hadn’t been entirely from fear, “only to see Oakenshield destroyed by it.”

He wishes he could find the words for the feeling of Thorin’s rough, calloused palms on both sides of his face, steady and gentle and strong, forged by hard labor and hardship and blood but capable of the utmost tenderness. He comes up empty when he thinks about how to describe the sensation of the dwarf’s thumb slowly caressing his jaw and setting on his lower lip, and the look in Thorin’s blue eyes when it had curled into a small smile under his touch — a look that had carried Bilbo through the dark days under the mountain, and all the empty years afterwards.

He had coveted it back then, to see that look on Thorin, joyful and warm in a man in which happiness looked so much like freedom. He looked like that when Bilbo sleepily nuzzled his nose against his beard when preparing to sleep, or when he parted from a kiss and the hobbit chased his lips mindlessly, still lost in the hazy sensation of the kiss, or when he asked Bilbo questions about life back home in the middle of the night to chase off unpleasant thoughts and he spent longer than necessary dissecting the different sizes of pumpkins in the eastern side of the Shire. 

He had coveted to witness the way the aura of grief and grimness that seemed to surround the dwarven prince and seep into his very bones dissipate and give way to a blooming contentment, obvious in the crinkle of his eyes, delighted and weightless, and the way the corners of his lips pulled upwards.

He was beautiful, and Bilbo had once told him so — enveloped in thick furs against the freezing wind, ducking for cover from the creatures that haunted the night, and watching the faraway tilt of the stars, trying to trace in them the stories of old Balin was so fond of telling — and Thorin had given him a surprised look in return, and a small smile. He had bent to kiss the corner of his mouth, quickly and recklessly, so openly in front of everyone. But no one had batted an eyelash except Fíli and Kíli, who had simply beamed at their uncle until he fruitlessly frowned and huffed at them to stop.

Bilbo still coveted those memories now, so many long years later, near the end of everything, guarding them closely and carefully inside his chest. Sometimes, his secrets bled into the pages of the book, but mostly he kept them close, unable and unwilling to find words with which to expose them to the world. 

But his memory fails him now, as his body finally catches up with his long years, and more and more little details he had thought embedded into his mind, his very soul, are harder to come by when he calls upon them — the exact shape of the scar on the bridge of Thorin’s nose, the way his fangs peaked slightly from under his lips when he grinned, and his voice. His booming, rough voice. Oh, he remembers the feeling of it reverberating in his bones, the vibrations of his laughter emanating from Thorin’s chest when pressed to Bilbo’s back. But he cannot hear him any longer. 

It is absolutely unbearable, the idea of losing him twice — once, by the worst darkness the world had to offer, and the other by his own hand. 

So he tries to write about the man he remembers now, hunched in his room in Rivendell, leaving blotches of ink on the margins of the pages with his shaking hands. He tries to embed the memory of Thorin Oakenshield into a world that had unexplainably moved on from his passing, as if it hadn’t been diminished by it, as if it made sense to treat him as just another chapter in a long list of them that had reached his ending. 

Most of his old companions — his old friends — are gone, and those who are not, are lost to him in the neverending world under the surface, and Bilbo thinks he might be the last person alive to remember the intricacies and shortcomings and victories and defeats of his lover. And his eyes. His blue eyes, too. 

He remembers the dwarven stories, cheerfully sung by Nori and Bofur and their dissonant flutes, whispered by Thorin in the darkest halls of Erebor as if he was granting Bilbo his most beloved secret. 

He recalls him now, tracing the intricate ancient carvings on the walls of the tunnel reverently, an awed look in his face, talking about Mahal, and his gift to the world. Talking about the drive that cannot be forsaken, thrumming inside the heart of every dwarf, pulling them to build, to forge, to create and to see the beauty of Mahal realized in the world by the strength of their hammer alone. He talked and talked about their destiny in the great reforging of the world, and how Mahal loved them, and had set aside wide, golden halls for them in Mandos, to wait on and rejoice in once they pass from this world until their time has come. 

“It is the highest honor, to see our world and stories, to walk our sacred halls as you have,” Thorin had said looking at Bilbo with the same reverence with which he’d glanced upon his long-lost home, and Bilbo felt his chest grow and expand beyond capability. “I am glad you have accepted this gift.”

It was then that Thorin had used the word for the first time. Amrâlimê, he had called him, and the word had sunk deep into Bilbo’s heart even though Thorin had not known how to translate it. But Balin’s eyes had widened when he had asked, later and while blushing wildly, about it. 

“Oh, laddie,” had been his reply, “you two bring so much warmth to this old dwarf’s bones.”

He had used the word just three times. Once, in one of the lost hallways of the lower levels of Erebor, and the whisper had echoed across the hallway, and Bilbo had thought then, nonsensically, that he hoped the echo would never cease. The second, the night before Bilbo had sneaked away to where the Elvenking Thranduil and the Bard of Laketown gathered their armies with his last hope of saving his beloved, even if it meant forfeiting his own life in the process. And the last one had been upon the field of a dying battle, with black blood and red blood alike trickling into the melting ice of the mountain. This time, the whispered, shaky word had nearly been drowned by Bilbo’s desperate sobs, but he had heard it all the same, and it had broken a piece of him that had never been mended, not even after a lifetime in the warm safety of the Shire. 

He thinks of Thorin, eternal and glorious and free from his burden at last, dwelling in the halls of Aulë, and he thinks of the fleet being readied in the Grey Havens to embark on the travel from which no one ever returns. He thinks now, looking out of his window in Rivendell into the eternal valley that expands beneath, that perhaps a humble hobbit, one of the Shire-folk, will not be denied entrance into the halls of Thorin’s forefathers. That perhaps his decades of solitude had not been in vain.

He will kneel before Aulë, crafter of Arda in Ilúvatar’s image, and pay homage to Durin the Deathless if he must for a chance to look upon Thorin Oakenshield’s blue eyes once more. He knows as much. 

He knows Gandalf is coming to Rivendell, and dear Frodo is coming alongside him. Perhaps the book will be finished upon their arrival, at last. Perhaps he will let the boy read it then, and look at him in his familiar mixture of awe and disbelief and thirst for an adventure of his own — one Bilbo fears he will get a taste from soon. 

He will leave Frodo the book, and everything he owns — even that which he thought himself unable to part from, whose shadow yet lingers in his breast pocket, painfully empty now. He will let Frodo finish the book and write his own story, and he will take Thorin’s portrait, as worn and wrinkled as he himself is, and get onto the ship to Valinor at last. 

Lady Arwen waits for him in the garden the next morning, as beautiful as she had been the day before, but this time with her hair pulled up by silver strings in an intricate design and an undoubted desire to show off elven craftsmanship. 

She asks him to read her the beginning of his story and he smiles as he nods, opening his book after carefully patting his inner pocket to check that Thorin’s portrait was still there. 

He clears his throat and begins reading.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” he says, and Arwen smiles. “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”


End file.
